


Ricochet

by Anythingtoasted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s05e18 Point of No Return, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:22:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5.18 coda. pwp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ricochet

He wakes to the sound of wings. “You come to finish me off?” Dean grins at Castiel, goading, lying on his back on the low single bed. The panic room is dark, and Castiel puts his hands in his pockets. He looks at the ground; scuffs the floor with his shoe, clearly still irritated, but less so, at least.

“No.” he says, brows furrowed, eyes on Dean. Dean moves his arm, and the handcuff attached to his wrist jangles; he rolls his eyes.

“Typical. You guys can’t trust me?” Castiel just looks at him; it says enough. Dean laughs, tiredly, and sags against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling; there’s a huge devil’s trap painted on it; Dean has no idea how Bobby got up there, but he’s pretty impressed. “So, what, you came to tell me what a failure I am?” he snorts. “Trust me, Cas, I could write that speech for you.”

Castiel strides over; he sits on the edge of the bed and reaches a hand for Dean; touches two fingers to his chest, and the pressure, the pain, alleviates. “I’m sorry about your ribs.” The angel says, not really an apology at all, and Dean huffs at that, too. “I was …frustrated.”

Dean laughs. “Couldn’t tell.” He says, under his breath, and Castiel grunts angrily.

“Do you do this on purpose?” he asks, looking down at him; Dean doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Do what?”

“ _Provoke_ me.”

Dean grins again; that bitter, twisted smile – and turns his head to look at him; one hand behind his head, his handcuffed arm trailing uselessly off the bed. “Maybe a little.” He says, and Castiel, to his surprise, snorts. 

“I suspected as much.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean shrugs, and turns back to looking at the ceiling. “Was that all you wanted to ask?”

“Do you remember Waterville?” Castiel says, pretty much out of the blue, that same measured gaze trained on Dean’s face. Dean lifts his head, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, I remember.” Dean smirks at him. “Thought  _you_ forgot.”

“No.” Castiel says, tone betraying nothing. “You  _provoked_ me then, too.”

“Went differently.”

“It did.” Castiel agrees, and Dean could swear he hears him smile.

Waterville was different. It’s a blur, now; stumbling out of the cathouse, getting Cas into his car; letting the angel fuck him against the leather seats, breath hot and trembling against his ear, hands gripping bruise-tight; marks Dean couldn’t shake off for weeks after. It hadn’t happened again.

He honestly thought Castiel had just taken it on board and moved on, in that weird way of his.

Apparently not.

“You think about it, ever?” Dean asks him, out of genuine curiosity, though it sounds like a line.

Castiel pauses. He lifts his hand; his eyes are on Dean’s neck, and he drops his palm against Dean’s ribs, as if he’s going to heal him again – but there’s nothing. No jolt of heavenly energy; just Castiel’s warm fingers on his chest, and the weight of his gaze. “When I have the time.” He says, and Dean laughs at him.

“Yeah?” he moves his wrist, trying to ease the ache of the metal cuffs; they clink against the leg of the bed. “Same here.”  He chances a glance at the angel, and regrets it immediately; Castiel’s eyes are heavy, his brow troubled, though there’s amusement there, too; in his mouth, in his voice.

“If we let you go, will you say yes to Michael?” He asks, and Dean frowns; their previous topic was a lot less depressing than this.

“C’mon, man.” His voice comes out wearier than he intends; Castiel’s fingers move against his chest; trail up and down the lines of his ribs, as he breathes. “Don’t do this to me.” Castiel meets his eyes.

“If you say yes, people will die. I’ll be one of them.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Castiel frowns even deeper; not his usual pissed-off scowl; pained. His lowers his gaze. “Like Waterville?” he asks. He looks at Dean again; half smiles. His hand trails up Dean’s chest; settles against his neck, palm fit to the hollow of his throat.

“Yeah. If you want.” He shifts on the bed; moves his arms so he can brace himself on his elbows, lean up a little; catch Castiel’s absent, penetrative gaze with his own. “Is that what you want?” he shifts a little closer; so close that Castiel is breathing against his face, still not looking him in the eyes; his gaze is on his hand, on Dean’s neck; on his fingers, stroking a ripple on his skin. “Is that what you came to talk about? That shit in the alleyway, that’s foreplay to you?”

Castiel actually laughs, at that, though it’s a hoarse, abortive bark. “No.”

Dean leans up and kisses him, just briefly; slurs his mouth against the side of Castiel’s, half to get his attention, half to piss him off. Castiel’s fingers, for a long moment, tense against his neck.

Then Castiel is pushing back, like before; pulling Dean’s face towards his and opening his mouth against Dean’s, kissing him hot and  _greedy,_ sliding his hand into the hair at the back of Dean’s neck, so fucking  _eager_ it makes Dean laugh. He pulls back and talks in the moments before Castiel pulls him back again; “Sure.” He manages, “I believe you.” before Castiel makes a noise, irritated and low in his throat, and pushes him back against the cot, his other hand braced on Dean’s shoulder. He can’t move his handcuffed arm as far as he wants to; can’t reach Castiel from this angle; but with the other he can untuck the angel’s shirt, slide his hand up, find skin. Can pluck at the hem of Castiel’s pants, slide his fingers below the waistband, draw from Castiel a halting breath, and grin, pleased.

“You’re a grumpy  _fuck_ , you know that?” he says when Castiel pulls back; but he’s silent as he watches, still leant up on his elbows, handcuffed hand trailing against the edge of the mattress. Castiel slides his tie from around his neck; pushes the coat from his shoulders, starts working on the buttons. He shifts on the bed; seats himself more securely on the edge of it; and Dean can reach his knee, then, so he puts his hand on it; strokes him with a thumb as Castiel undresses, not even looking at Dean, bent to his task.

“Maybe by your definition.” Castiel murmurs, and peels the shirt from his shoulders in one fluid movement; drops it to the floor. Dean can’t reach his stomach; he settles for trailing his hand up the angel’s thigh, as far as it will go; slow and lazy. Castiel undoes the button on his pants; pushes them down, underwear and all, and pulls away from the hand on his leg to slide them off, and onto the floor; and then he’s naked, looking at Dean, considering.

“We doing this? Now?” Dean murmurs; the angel doesn’t reply. “If you think this’ll change my mind, Cas-“ he says quickly, but Castiel cuts him off with a glance.

“I’m not  _bargaining_ with you.”

“No?”

“No.” Castiel says seriously, and gets both his knees onto the bed. With one hand braced against Dean’s shoulder he moves; crawls awkwardly to position himself on the bed, then swings one thigh over Dean’s body, and sits on his stomach. It’s hard to remember this is only the second time (as far as Dean knows) that Castiel has done this -  he’s so sure, so steady in his movements – but his cock is hard, flushed, slick against his stomach; the only indicator of his inexperience, how  _easy_ it is to get him going.

He was laughing before, but now he’s unsure. He reaches with his free hand, and touches Castiel’s naked thigh; trails his hand up as far as he can reach, breathing shallow, and the angel watches, as if  _Dean_  is the naked one; as if he has nothing to be nervous about, at all.

He doesn’t ask what it  _is_ about. He doesn’t think he’d like the answer.

Castiel bends down to kiss him; he puts one hand on Dean’s cheek, tilts his head up, and the other is on his own cock, jacking himself slow and loose, hips canting only slightly into the circle of his fist, his ass rubbing against Dean’s still-clothed crotch, and  _yeah,_ it stirs him; Castiel, naked and warm and measured above him, each move so deliberate you’d almost think he’d practiced. Castiel sits back, breaking the kiss, and shuffles backwards onto his legs, so he can get at Dean’s zipper with both hands. He unzips his jeans, casual as you please, Dean watching; pulls his boxers down, gets Dean’s cock, half-hard, out of them and into his hand; holds it with a weird kind of curiosity, and starts to stroke him slowly, root to tip, coaxing him to full hardness. He looks up at Dean through half-lidded eyes, a question; Dean nods, not really knowing what he’s agreed to. His chin is tilted against his chest so he can watch, and his breath hitches when Castiel puts two fingers in his own mouth, watching Dean the whole time, his other hand on his cock, still stroking. He rises up on his knees; puts those two fingers behind himself, and Dean realises what he’s doing, and chokes.

“Cas, you don’t – don’t do this for me.”

“You’re arrogant.” The angel replies, gasping mid-sentence as he gets his spit-slick fingers inside himself and starts working them in and out, never breaking eye contact. Dean can’t even see what he’s doing, beyond the movement of his arm, but even so he’s breathing heavy, hands tightening on the mattress, unable to reach far enough to touch Castiel, and  _hating_ it.

“Cas.” He says, “Cas. Cas,” he shifts his legs; Castiel puts his hand on his thigh, and holds it down.

“Be – “ he gasps, and pushes back onto his own fingers, the noise shocked. “Patient, Dean.” His eyes are almost black, pupils blown so wide there’s only a rim of blue left there, and he’s keening onto his own hand, fucking himself with his fingers, and all Dean can do is  _watch._ Castiel’s cock is hard and  _leaking_ now, curved against his belly, and Dean wonders if this place is soundproof; if Bobby and Sam are upstairs now, listening, faces twisted in horror.

His train of thought cuts off, thankfully, when Castiel walks up him again, on his knees; Dean’s cock brushes between his legs as he moves past it, and Dean breathes in sharply – and then Castiel has hold of him, one hand on Dean’s stomach, the other steadying his cock as Castiel just  _sinks down on it,_ so hot and tight that Dean can’t breathe as he takes him in; he reaches forward desperately, scrabbles at Castiel’s thigh, fingers tightening on his knee, his other hand, restricted by the handcuff, braced against the bedframe. “Jesus.” He murmurs, and Castiel doesn’t seem to be paying him much attention; he takes him in, almost all the way, and then sits still, chest heaving, shallowly, in and out. Dean looks up at him. “You okay?” he asks, because he  _has_ to; because Castiel is staring at him, lips parted.

Castiel nods. “I’m fine.” He says, voice distant; and then, slowly, he lifts himself up; pulls almost all the way off Dean’s cock and then moves down again, faster this time – Dean has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from crying out. He’s  _trembling,_ barely held back from lifting his hips to fuck in and out of that  _heat,_ for fear of hurting him.

“You sure?” he can’t really speak; his breath comes in sharp, short gasps. Castiel nods, again, and rolls his hips this time; shifts on Dean’s cock, pushing up and down, angling himself differently each time. Dean knows he’s found what he wants when his head jerks up, exposing the long, bare expanse of his neck; he breathes, just once, Dean’s name, and then starts to move in earnest, a fast, punishing rhythm, holding Dean down with one hand behind him, against Dean’s leg – jacking himself with the other in rapid, desperate strokes, groaning on the crest of each one.

Dean reaches as far as he can with his free hand; pushes his fingers in-between Castiel’s folded leg and his thigh, gripping tight to the underside, nails digging in. “Cas,  _shit,”_ is all he can manage as the angel rides him, ruthless, head tilted back to look at the ceiling, hand flying fast as he jacks himself. Dean can feel it come up, too fast; feel the buzz at the base of his spine, the way heat spreads through his body like a flush, the way his stomach muscles quake and his cock twitches inside Castiel – he tries to steady himself - breathes a warning, half a warning, all he can – but the angel keeps going, no slower, no faster, even as Dean grunts, practically  _clawing_ at his thigh, and comes inside him, breathing his name, syllables drawn out like he’s in pain. “Cas – Cas,  _fuck-“_ he can’t breathe; even as he’s softening, cock still spilling inside Castiel, the angel continues to move on him, jacking himself harder now, thumb swiping at the wet head of him, mouth open. His stomach muscles roll as he moves, then stutter in spasm as his body stills, hand still working on himself; he comes over his fingers, up his stomach, dripping from between his legs onto the hem of Dean’s shirt; onto the thin, exposed line of his stomach, onto the hair above his cock. The angel makes almost no sound – just exhales as if he’s been holding his breath for an age, and leans back to brace himself on his hand as he pulls up, and off, of Dean.

He drops, and sits on Dean’s thighs, looking down at himself; lifts an exhausted hand, and trails it through the mess on his stomach. “I –“ he begins, then sighs. He laughs. “I’m tired.” He says, and he looks up at Dean, and half-smiles. The twist of it is bitter, but Dean will take it.

“ _Cas_.” He says, quietly; moves his hand – doesn’t exactly  _say_ ‘come here’ – but Castiel gets it. He crawls slowly up Dean’s stomach, and he’s such a  _mess;_ he stains his shirt, getting it wet with the come from his stomach, with what leaks out of him; with the slick on his hand.

He sits on Dean’s chest for a moment, and then lifts his wet hand, and trails his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, before he dips down to kiss him – Dean shifting up on his elbows, as best he can, to meet him. Castiel draws back, and then dips down again as if pulled; kisses him again, briefly. He stays close. “Dean, I’m asking you –“ he begins, but Dean lifts a hand and pulls him close again; cuts him off.

“Can we not?” he says, and looks up at the angel. “It’s not about you and me, Cas, you  _know_ that.”

“I know.” He says, but it sounds like a lie. Dean sighs tiredly.

“Look, I just-“ his chest is still heaving, breaths still not under control. “I thought about Waterville all the fucking time. You know that, right?” he looks at the angel, who nods guiltily. “You knew that.”

“Yes.”

“So you know it – you know it meant –“ he swallows, tracing the line of Castiel’s cheek with his thumb. “It meant something. To me.”

“I know.”

“And - to you?”

“Yes.”

Dean nods, looking away from him, down at his own chest; but his hand is still on Castiel’s face. “Well, that’s – that’s that, then.”

Castiel sighs. He turns his head to the side, under Dean’s hand, and kisses his palm – then pulls out of his grip, and gets off him. He sits on the edge of the bed and picks his pants up from the floor; starts to pull them on. “Not all hope is lost, you know.” He mumbles it to his own knees; Dean sits up and looks at the side of his face.

“I guess.” He says, but he doesn’t really believe it. “You okay, Cas?”

“I’ll be alright.”

“Okay.” Dean doesn’t know what to say; can’t quell the welling in his chest of  _something,_ can’t  _not_ want to reach out and touch him – but can’t touch him, either, and it’s not because of the cuffs. “Do you have to go now?” he asks, because Castiel has stood up, and is re-buttoning his shirt. He nods; starts on the tie, for some reason completely unable to do it himself, and Dean grunts at him – “C’mere, Cas, I’ll do it-“ but the angel shakes his head and does it himself, messily.

“I just wish you had more  _faith.”_ He says, and his voice is so honest, but Dean’s mouth tightens in anger.

“It’s not that simple.” He says. Castiel nods – he picks up his trenchcoat from the floor, and shrugs it on with the air of someone who has reached the end of his tether. Dean sympathises.

“It never is, is it?” Castiel answers, and Dean doesn’t know how to respond; doesn’t even know what Castiel  _wants_ him to say.

“I won’t say yes.” He breathes, and Castiel nods absently.

“Good.” He mutters, but it’s as if he doesn’t really care at all. He walks over again; bends down, unexpectedly, to kiss Dean’s forehead, placing a hand at his temple. Then he straightens. “I’m being called.” He says. Dean blinks.

“By who?”

“Your brother.”

“Huh.” A pause. “Cas-“ but the angel sighs.

“It’s alright, Dean. I understand.” He stands upright, straight, and Dean knows he’s preparing to go – he looks down at Dean; at the mess he is, his pants still unbuttoned, still sticky, come drying on his skin. He touches Dean’s forehead with two fingers – and then he’s gone, leaving Dean, as usual, bewildered; exhausted; clean again, jeans re-buttoned.

Dean sags against the pillow and looks at the ceiling.

It’s not about them. Dean knows it; Cas knows it too, for all his resistance. It’s  _so much bigger_ than them, and he can’t be so arrogant as to pick himself; pick his brother; pick the angel, pick their friends, over the whole world. 

He sighs. It’ll be a few hours before the others come to get him, he knows (if they don’t just leave him here, liability that he is).

He can trace the ceiling with his eyes, trying not to think too hard, until then.   

 


End file.
